


perfect ploys

by pageleaf



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-11-30 15:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11466681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pageleaf/pseuds/pageleaf
Summary: "Why me?" Yuuri asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.Also for the thousandth time, Viktor sighs, his chin propped up on one hand--the one not cuffed to the table. "What do you mean?"Yuuri stares at him from behind thick glasses, wide-eyed and nervous. "You'reViktor Nikiforov."(White Collar AU where FBI Agent Katsuki Yuuri is married to retired figure skater Phichit Chulanont, and international art thief Viktor Nikiforov charms his way into their home, and their hearts)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my oldest ot3 is neal/peter/el so really y'all knew this was bound to happen (also my god, i can't believe i didn't immediately realize how much viktor nikiforov and neal caffrey are the same person). also this is my 50th fic on ao3, and wow, i really can't think of a better fic to honor with that title
> 
> title is from "disloyal order of water buffaloes" by fall out boy
> 
> unbeta-ed, so if you notice anything horribly wrong, please let me know!!
> 
> (also: the rating on this may go up; i haven't decided yet)

"Why me?" Yuuri asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.

Also for the thousandth time, Viktor sighs, his chin propped up on one hand—the one not cuffed to the table. "What do you mean?"

Yuuri stares at him from behind thick glasses, wide-eyed and nervous. "You're _Viktor Nikiforov_."

Viktor smirks. "That I am," he says, leaning back in his chair.

"You could have anyone you want."

Viktor raises an eyebrow, and Yuuri's eyes go impossibly wider.

"I—I mean as a partner. A...handler?"

Leaning forward, Viktor covers Yuuri's hand with his own. "But I only want you," he purrs, and delights in the way Yuuri flushes. Maybe this time—

Yuuri pulls back like he's been burned. "But _why_."

Viktor shrugs. "You're the one who caught me."

"I know that's only because you let me," Yuuri says, making a face. He looks adorable, Viktor thinks, and then quickly shakes himself.

 _Focus, Nikiforov_.

"I chose you because I admire you," Viktor says seriously. "You're smart, you're driven, you're creative—"

"I cried the other day because I spilled a frappucino on my shirt," Yuuri says.

Viktor blinks, then laughs. "And you're cute."

Yuuri's shoulders come up around his ears, and he looks away. "I'm married," he says.

Viktor's smile falls. Ah, right. "I know," he says ruefully. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Yuuri says, waving him off. "I know you weren't serious."

Viktor stares.

Yuuri straightens, his shoulders going back. He's a federal agent now, his nervousness gone. "We should review the details of this arrangement," he says. "First: you're going to have a radius of two miles that you can't leave without supervision."

The moment's passed. Oh well. "Fine."

Yuuri nods and makes a tick on the sheet of paper in front of him. "Okay. Second: since I'm a junior agent, you'll technically report to my superior."

"Celestino, right?" Viktor asks, and Yuuri blinks at him.

"Yes." He sounds a little surprised, which is funny. After a year of research, this is the least of what Viktor knows about him.

"'Technically', you said," Viktor prompts.

Yuuri fidgets with his pen. "I'm the one who's going to be deciding how to use you."

Viktor hides a smile. "As a resource, you mean."

Yuuri looks at him balefully over his glasses. "Moving on," he says firmly, and Viktor rests his chin on his hand again with a sigh.

 

"I'm home," Yuuri calls as he opens the door.

Phichit, who'd been watching tv on the couch, pokes his head over the back. "Welcome home! How was he?"

Yuuri is studying his own feet as he takes his shoes off. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on," Phichit laughs, springing off the couch. He comes over to meet Yuuri by the door and headbutts him gently, catlike, trying to get him to look up. "I can tell you're blushing," he sings, "even without seeing your face."

Yuuri groans. "He was very Viktor," he says. "I don't know how else to say it."

"Sooo," Phichit prompts. "What, handsome? Charming?"

"Impossibly enigmatic," Yuuri says ruefully. "Feels like even though I'm his handler, he's the one leading me around by the nose."

Phichit's quiet for a moment. "Well," he says. "It's a very cute nose?"

Yuuri's very cute nose crinkles as he laughs. "Stop," he says, but doesn't resist when Phichit guides him down into a kiss. Phichit takes the opportunity while he's distracted to loosen his tie, sliding if off and tossing it somewhere behind him—hopefully it doesn't land in one of the plants, again. He's manage to undo two buttons on Yuuri's shirt when Yuuri pulls back.

"Right now?" he asks, grinning.

Phichit hides a smile. "What? I missed my husband, is that so wrong?"

"Your husband," Yuuri says, "is starving. I was too nervous to eat lunch today."

"You said you wanted to cook today," Phichit reminds him, and Yuuri blanches and then groans.

"I did," he says sadly. "But I don't have _time_ , I have..." He sighs. " _So_ much paperwork."

"Viktor's more trouble than he's worth, hmm?" Phichit asks slyly.

Yuuri's grin is practically euphoric. "Never," he says rapturously. Then he frowns. "But what are we going to eat?" 

Phichit shoots him a conspiratorial glance. "Want to order pizza?"

Yuuri's eyes widen. "Can we?"

When Phichit was still skating, they barely ever had pizza: Phichit because of his nutrition plan, and Yuuri out of solidarity. Plus, Yuuri loved to cook, and back then he was the less busy of the two, so he did it often. It's been not quite a year since Phichit retired, but they still forget sometimes that they're allowed to indulge.

"I'll call," Phichit says, bouncing up on his toes and kissing him quickly on the cheek.

"I love you," Yuuri says back, fervent.

Phichit pulls out his phone and dials the pizza place. While the phone rings, he hears the familiar rustling of Yuuri unpacking his messenger bag, and can picture without looking the result: laptop on the edge of the coffee table, pen/pencil/highlighter neatly lined up at its side, files/folders/paperwork spread out around. As he places their order, Phichit goes to the kitchen, fills up the kettle, and turns it on. By the time he hangs up, he has their mugs out with tea bags in it, and the water's halfway to boiling.

That's when Yuuri calls, "Phichit, will you make me some—"

"Already done, darling," Phichit responds. "Pizza will be here in twenty."

A pause, and then, "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

Phichit snorts. The kettle switches off, and he pours the water over the tea bags. Carrying the mugs with practiced, careful grace to the coffee table, he sets them down on the edge farthest from Yuuri's work. "What's going on here?" he asks curiously, sitting down next to Yuuri on the couch.

Yuuri sighs, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "Just the details of this deal," he says. "All the paperwork that comes with having an informant, only times ten." His mouth quirks up ruefully. "I half-wonder whether they're adding so many obstacles just to discourage me from doing this."

Phichit leans his head on Yuuri's shoulder. "Sounds boring," he says. "But that—" He taps a finger on the file on Yuuri's left, which is open to a picture of Viktor's face. It looks like they'd meant it for a mug shot, but instead Viktor's smirking, winking at the camera. "That looks interesting."

"Oh, that?" Yuuri says, with deliberate casualness. "That's just, ah. When we arrested him, Viktor gave us a statement, and it included a confession."

"A confession for what?" Phichit asks.

"Everything?" Yuuri laughs. "A lot of things. Some of them even I didn't know about." The _and I thought I knew about all of it_ is unsaid. "So we have to compare the details to what we have in our files, which means that now I'm stuck going through every word of all the notes we have on Viktor Nikiforov."

Somehow Phichit doesn't think "stuck" is the right word. The eager glint in Yuuri's eyes seems to agree.

"Anything you can tell me about?" Phichit asks. After all, Yuuri's not the only one enamoured by Viktor Nikiforov. A glamorous, dapper art thief, like something lifted straight from an old movie; who wouldn't love him?

Yuuri wavers. "I shouldn't," he says, but Phichit can tell from his tone that he's dying to talk about it.

"Come on," Phichit wheedles. He picks up Yuuri's mug—green tea, in a mug Phichit bought in Bangkok the last time he went home—and hands it over, before taking his own—masala chai, in the FBI mug Yuuri gave him when he got this job. "Just like old times?"

Yuuri bites his lip. "Well," he says. "You remember that break-in at the Ashmolean a couple years ago? The one where nothing was stolen?"

Phichit nods. "You thought Viktor had been surprised by the guards and gotten spooked or something, right?"

"Yeah," Yuuri says. He grins, boyish. "Well it turns out, apparently something _did_ get stolen, we just didn't know..."

 

Viktor sets his briefcase down with a heavy sigh, staring in trepidation at the front door of the brownstone. It's not an imposing building on its own, but the knowledge of who inhabits it...

"I should have just called Chris," he grumbles to himself. Then he gathers up his courage and rings the doorbell.

The door swings open, revealing Lilia Baranovskaya, clad in a silk dressing gown, scowling fiercely. "Viktor," she says flatly. "What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Viktor fidgets, feeling all of nineteen years old, late to his ballet lesson. It's not a feeling he's missed. "Lilia," he says, smiling brightly. "It's been a long time."

Lilia arches an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Yakov said he talked to you?" Viktor attemps, and Lilia snorts.

"He told me what he thought was important, which was just your name and fifteen expletives."

Viktor flushes, and something in Lilia seems to soften.

"Either way," she says. "I'd like to hear it from you. Come in and make me some coffee while I find you a decent suit to wear, and we'll talk."

Viktor follows her into the house, closing the door behind himself gingerly.

"Why don't you call him," Lilia says, waving her hand toward the small table in the entry. She floats up the stairs to where, Viktor assumes, she keeps the designer suits that she bought for Yakov, and which therefore kept in the divorce. "He won't admit it, but he was worried."

Viktor hides a smile, obediently picking the burner phone up from the table. There's already five numbers in the contacts, and he dials the first.

It takes a few rings, but eventually there's a click, and then a terse, "Yeah?"

"Yura," Viktor says. "Just calling to let you know I made it here safe."

Yuri inhales, and then he starts shouting.

Viktor laughs, pulls the phone back from his ear, and starts taking his shoes off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning finds Yuuri parked in front of Viktor's new address, gearing up to go in. It had been remarkably easy to talk to Viktor on the phone yesterday, but his trepidation grows the more he thinks about looking him in the eyes. He straightens his coat nervously, buttons it, then unbuttons it again, and gets out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this might actually get a little longer than i expected it to be hahaha, whoops /o\
> 
> a few notes:  
> \- i messed around with the age differences a little to make things work, so guang hong and leo are both about 25, phichit is probably 27, yuuri 29, and viktor 33. that combo of ages in agents would probably not fly in a real-life fbi setting, but ehhhh tv shows aren't realistic either  
> \- i tried to keep only characters who have canonically trained in the US as living in the US, with the exception of lilia, for the narrative  
> \- this is not supposed to be a serious fic, so i've winged a lot of the details with the "cases" they work on (thanks to twitter for the name suggestion for this chapter's thief :D)
> 
> thanks to everyone who's commented/kudosed so far!! i really appreciate it :) there will be more phichit soon, promise

"You should be careful," Yuri says, after he's finished yelling. "He's dangerous."

Viktor hums. "He seems sweet," he says, putting on a jacket and analyzing his reflection in the mirror. He's trying on the suits Lilia brought him, Yuri on speakerphone on top of the dresser.

"Yeah," Yuri says disbelievingly. "A sweet, innocent FBI agent, seems plausible."

" _You're_ sweet," Viktor teases, "for worrying about me. I'll be fine."

"You've been off your game ever since last year," Yuri snarls. "You will _not_."

Viktor shrugs, taking the jacket off and hanging it carefully inside the wardrobe. "I've been taking care of myself for a very long time, Yura," he says quietly. "I know how to stay safe."

He hopes his tone is convincing enough, because he's not quite sure he believes it himself. There's something about Yuuri Katsuki that gets him off-balance, nervous and shaky like—like he's become someone else. Someone normal.

Yuri scoffs. "Don't call me this time if you get hurt," he warns. "I won't pick up."

Viktor smiles down at his hands, busy folding crisp white undershirts. "Okay," he says fondly.

"I'm serious," Yuri says, his voice rising. "I'm in Russia, Viktor, I can't come get you like last time."

Viktor stills, looking down at the phone, unsure how to respond. Unsure if there is a response, a way to absolve his fear.

He's saved from having to answer by a knock on the door to his room, which Viktor opens to see Lilia. "I'll call you later, Yuri," he says, and hangs up in the middle of the resulting protest. "Yes?"

"You have a call," Lilia says, holding up the phone the FBI gave him with a faint air of disapproval.

Viktor takes it with a sigh. "Hello?"

"Viktor," Yuuri says. "I'm going to be stopping by tomorrow to pick you up on the way to the office, I just wanted to let you know."

Viktor smiles broadly. "Of course!" he says brightly. "It'll be a pleasure. Here, let me tell you my address—"

Yuuri's quiet laugh cuts him off. "Mr. Nikiforov," he says slyly, "what did you think the anklet was for, exactly?"

Viktor blanches, then tugs up the leg of his suit to inspect his ankle, the bulky plastic tracker blinking back up at him accusingly. Lilia rolls his eyes at him, and he grimaces at her. "Would you believe I forgot?"

Yuuri laughs again, a soft, surprised sound, and it warms Viktor from his head to his anklet. He smiles ruefully, running his hand through his hair. He's in deep.

 

The next morning finds Yuuri parked in front of Viktor's new address, gearing up to go in. It had been remarkably easy to talk to Viktor on the phone yesterday, but his trepidation grows the more he thinks about looking him in the eyes. He puts on the jacket of his suit, which Phichit had told him the wear that morning. "The blue one," he'd said, lounging on the bed in his pajamas, watching Yuuri dress with half-lidded eyes. "It makes your shoulders look obscene." Yuuri straightens it nervously, hoping he was right. He buttons it, then unbuttons it again, and gets out of the car.

Viktor opens the door holding his briefcase and a box packed with things Yuuri assume will go on his desk. He does it so quickly after Yuuri knocks that Yuuri half-wonders if he was watching from inside, like a teenager waiting anxiously for their prom date. It's such an absurd, endearing mental image that it shakes him out of his daze. He smiles.

"Good morning, Viktor," he says, and is graced with one of Viktor's signature sparkling smiles.

"Good morning, Yuuri!" He steps out of the house and is about to pull the door shut behind him when Yuuri grabs the handle, keeping it open.

"I wanted to meet your host," Yuuri explains, "to thank them for taking the trouble."

Viktor raises an eyebrow at him, smiling quizzically. "I'm sure you've already looked up who owns this residence," he says dryly.

Yuuri shrugs. "It's not the same." He pushes past Viktor into the house. He hears Viktor sigh, and then follow him.

"And who are you?" Lilia Baranovskaya, world-class ballerina, former prima of the Bolshoi ballet, greets him stonily. Yuuri straightens his posture automatically, and she watches him do it, inscrutable.

"Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki," he says, holding out his hand. "Thank you for taking in my CI, Ms. Baranovskaya."

She shrugs, not taking his hand. "It was a favor," she says coolly, and then doesn't explain further.

Yuuri feels his smile falter. "Still. I hope it won't trouble you too much."

"Yuuuri," Viktor pouts, coming up from behind to take Yuuri's arm, and Yuuri suppresses his jump. "Are you calling me trouble?"

Yuuri doesn't say anything, and Lilia finally breaks composure, snorting with what sounds like real amusement.

"Good to meet you," she says, and waves at them airily. "Try to bring him back in one piece, hm?"

Yuuri opens his mouth to protest, but she's already vanished into the next room.

"Can we go?" Viktor says, put-upon, and Yuuri swallows.

"Sure," he says. "Let's go get you settled in at the office."

 

Viktor's first day was supposed to be uneventful, Yuuri had said, but when they push through the glass doors to the office, the bullpen is in chaos, people scurrying between desks, dropping papers, clamoring for each others' attention, getting into arguments by their computer monitors.

"What the hell—" Yuuri says, as Viktor eyes the pandemonium with interest.

"So this isn't normal?" Viktor asks innocently, and smiles when Yuuri shoots him a look.

"Hold on for a second," he says, and runs up the stairs to a glass-walled office, gesturing to the man inside. When the man stands up, Viktor recognizes him as Celestino Cialdini, Yuuri's—and Viktor's too, now, he realizes—superior. He's curious what they're talking about, but they're too far away for him to read their lips, especially with the morning light behind them like that. Oh well.

He keeps his box in his arms and strolls through the bullpen, looking for any desk which might be his—but there's too many people, too many papers on too many desks for him to be able to catch sight of nametags. After a minute or two though, he notices two agents peering at him surreptitiously, and approaches them.

"Um," the smaller of the two says, and Viktor smiles at him winningly.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Viktor Nikiforov."

"He knows," the other one says, leaning over the back of the first's chair and hiding a smile. "Trust me, he knows."

"Shut up," the first hisses, elbowing him in the side. "I'm Guang Hong, and this is Leo. We're on your team." He's blushing very lightly as he says it, but his gaze is firm.

Viktor tilts his head at them. Interesting. "You wouldn't happen to know where my desk is, would you?"

"Oh!" Guang Hong says, shooting up from his chair so quickly that Leo has to rear backward to avoid getting hit in the nose. They can't possibly be as young as they seem, can they?

Viktor follows them to a mostly-empty desk on the far edge ("You're across from Yuuri," Leo says, but Viktor's pretty sure the important thing is that he's right in Celestino's line of sight) and watches in amusement as they kick out the agent who's sitting on its edge, flipping fretfully through papers.

"What is going on?" Viktor muses, setting his box down, and Guang Hong turns to him.

"A notorious thief turned back up," he says, "after a ten-year absence! We had to pull their file out of the cold cases—"

"—and now we have to go through every detail, looking for a clue," Leo says with a rueful smile.

Viktor stretches, cracks his knuckles, and motions impatiently. "Let me take a look."

They trade nervous glances. "I don't know," Leo says.

Guang Hong turns back to look over their shoulder, up at the glass office. "Maybe we should wait until Yuuri's done talking to—"

Viktor rolls his eyes. "Please," he says. "This is what I'm here for, no?"

Guang Hong looks at Leo, and Leo looks at Viktor. Viktor smiles.

"Fine," Leo says, and goes to borrow a file from a neighboring agent. Viktor crows internally, sitting down in his chair and spinning around to grin at Guang Hong.

"Exciting, isn't it?"

Guang Hong stares at him, wary or star-struck or both, and then slowly smiles back.

Viktor leans back and puts his feet up on the desk. He's off to a good start.

 

Yuuri winces as he leaves Celestino's office, closing the door behind him. He'd hoped to have a day to get their bearings, but—

"Viktor," he says, as he approaches Viktor's desk. "We have a case."

"Already on it," Viktor says, muffled around the highlighter cap in his mouth.

Yuuri blinks at him. "What?"

Viktor takes the cap out of his mouth, which Yuuri determinedly looks away from. "I said—"

"I heard," Yuuri says, "but how did you—"

"I asked the kids," Viktor says, quirking a smile as he jabs his thumb over his shoulder in Guang Hong and Leo's— _the kids'_ —direction. Yuuri doesn't know whether to be irritated or endeared.

Yuuri gapes at him for another moment, then closes his mouth, exhaling. He steals someone else's chair and pulls it next to Viktor's, sitting down to look over his shoulder. "Anything?"

"Actually, yes," Viktor says.

"Really?" Yuuri asks, perking up.

"Yeah, except—" Viktor groans, closing his eyes and thumping his head on the desk. "Except it doesn't make any _sense_."

Yuuri peers at the file. "What doesn't?"

Viktor points to a photograph with his highlighter. "See this?"

It's captioned _Shoe print left at the crime scene, in glitter_ and it is, well, exactly what it sounds like. It's a calling card maybe more famous than the stolen painting itself. The media had dubbed the thief Twinkletoes when they'd first shown up, a name rumor had it that they'd made up and spread themselves. "Yes, that's how we know it's—"

"Right," Viktor interrupts. "The only problem is, it's _exactly_ the same shoe as the last time."

Yuuri frowns. "Yeah?" When Viktor doesn't elaborate, just looks at him expectantly, Yuuri prompts, "And that's a problem because..."

"Oh!" Viktor smack himself on the forehead. "Sorry, I forgot you don't—look, there," he gestures to one corner of the footprint, "there's a small imperfection, like maybe the sole of the shoe has a hole, or a divot of some kind."

"Okay," Yuuri says.

"And that divot isn't there in the first—" Viktor pulls out five photographs from a stack in the corner of his desk and fans them out. Yuuri blinks, only now realizing how cluttered Viktor's desk has already become, in the less than an hour Yuuri's been in Celestino's office. "The first four scenes, but it _is_ there in the fifth."

Yuuri frowns, peering for a closer look. "What would make an imperfection like that?" His eyes widen. "Or do you think the fifth was a different person too?"

"No, no, the fifth was the same," Viktor says. "And it was a bullet."

Yuuri stares. "A _what_?"

"A bullet," Viktor says urgently. "It was a bullet that scraped the shoe."

"How do you know that?" Yuuri asks in disbelief, because there's no way he could have figured that out from a few pictures.

"Because I _know_ her," Viktor says. "The thief, Twinkle—" He laughs, a quiet, fond sound, and Yuuri watches him in fascination. "Twinkletoes. She was Ya—ah, my mentor's close friend, and I heard from him directly. She was shot on that last job, and one of the bullets hit the shoe that she used for the prints."

"Okay," Yuuri says, "so this proves that this most recent theft was hers as well, right?"

"No," Viktor says. "She was shot, and then she retired, and—well, she was almost eighty. Yuuri, she's _dead_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's smart," Viktor says, though a part of him wants to be outraged. _How could he_ and _after I came all the way here and got myself arrested for him_ and variations on the same going through his head, but coming up against a wall because, well. It is smart. "I guess you'll just have to consider this my probationary period?"
> 
> Yuuri looks at him inscrutably, and then he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I suppose I can take you for a test drive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to grim_lupine for looking this over for me, and to twitter for fielding my questions about ugly things like _plot_ , ugh
> 
> notes:  
> \- celeste the elder's last name _moreau_ is a thinly-veiled reference to kate moreau, from white collar  
>  \- there's not as many ladies in yoi as dudes, so i'm making some up! the ladies from canon will show up later :)  
> 

"I'm sorry, what?" Yuuri says faintly.

Viktor shakes his head, looking equally baffled. "She's dead, Yuuri. Celeste died five years ago."

 _Celeste_. Finally, the identity of one of their most infuriating cold cases, and she's already gone. Yuuri groans, tipping his head back and looking up to the ceiling for strength. "So we're back at square one?"

"Yes," Viktor says, frustrated. Then his voice turns thoughtful. "Wait, no."

"No?" Yuuri looks at him, and he's looking back at the files.

"No, because it's _the same shoe_ ," Viktor says excitedly. "How many people would have access to that shoe?"

Guang Hong pokes his head in on Viktor's other side, Leo behind him, the two of them having been watching this whole time. "Not many?" he suggests.

"Not many at all," Viktor agrees. "So we make a list of all of the people who would have access, and we've got a lead."

 

Unfortunately, every connection they find in their files is a dead-end, with the person either dead, in prison, or known to be in a different country. Once, Yuuri looks at Viktor hesitantly, and asks, "You're sure she's dead?"

"I'm pretty sure, yes," Viktor says sardonically from behind Yuuri's laptop, which he'd 'borrowed'. He looks up at Yuuri, sees the wavering expression on his face, and his stomach drops. "You think I'm lying."

"No, it's not that," Yuuri says, but then stops, seems to reconsider. "I guess I'm just thinking that you are a con man, and I've been maybe a little too quick to trust you completely?"

"That's smart," Viktor says, though a part of him wants to be outraged. _How could he_ and _after I came all the way here and got myself arrested for him_ and variations on the same going through his head, but coming up against a wall because, well. It is smart. "I guess you'll just have to consider this my probationary period?"

Yuuri looks at him inscrutably, and then he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I suppose I can take you for a test drive."

Viktor swallows, hard. He knows his way around a double entendre, and he thinks he hears a bit of flirtation, but it could just as easily be wishful thinking. Yuuri's shown no other signs of interest since Viktor's arrest, and he's _married_ , and Viktor—Viktor just shouldn't read into it too deeply. Right?

"A test drive," he says, clearing his throat. "Sure."

 

They finally figure it out, but the lead doesn't come from anything the FBI has: it comes from Viktor. Well, actually it comes from Yakov, who Viktor sneaks off into the bathroom to text when Yuuri gets his afternoon cup of coffee. At first, Yakov is reticent ( _Figure it out yourself._ he texts back, and _Stop dragging me into your problems._ ) but eventually, as Viktor knew he would, he softens enough to send _Check into the daughter._

That's right; Viktor had completely forgotten. Celeste had had a daughter who she lived with, towards the end. She'd been a kind lady, but quiet, and a little severe. Viktor thinks she might have been a teacher, or maybe a pediatrician, because she always seemed most comfortable with children.

Wait. _Children_ , Viktor thinks, and rushes back to his desk.

"What are you looking for?" Leo asks, sitting down on the edge.

"Birth records," Viktor says, typing swiftly on Yuuri's laptop. He'd liked Celeste, but hadn't been close enough to her to know her full family tree, but he knew she'd had grandchildren through her daughter, maybe even great-grandchildren. Her grandchildren would probably be adults now.

Leo comes closer to look over his shoulder. "Who's Celeste Moreau?"

"Shh," Viktor says impatiently.

Leo obediently shuts up, and then says hesitantly, "Want some coffee?"

"Tea, please," Viktor says absently.

When Leo leaves, Viktor strikes gold. _Celeste Richard_ , it says, _born in Lyon, France, May 13, 1994_. Named for her grandmother, Viktor notes with interest. Twenty-three is more than old enough to pull off that job; Viktor himself started stealing much younger.

Yuuri comes back with his coffee and sits down. "What's this?"

"I remembered Celeste had a family," Viktor says. "This is her granddaughter, who would undoubtedly have access to that shoe."

Yuuri blinks, squints to look at the screen. "She lives in the US," he says, with a note of surprise. "New Jersey."

"More than close enough."

Leo comes back with the tea, which Viktor takes gratefully. He'd gained a taste for it recently, and it's become something of a habit.

"Let's see what we can dig up on her," Yuuri says, and Leo and Guang Hong snap to it. "Good job," he says to Viktor, and Viktor tamps down on the flutter of pleasure it causes.

 

Celeste Richard is young, and not tall, but she's intimidating enough with the way she stares them down as she opens the door for them. "Come in," she says. "I've been expecting you."

She confesses easily enough when they ask her, over coffee and fresh-baked muffins. Turns out, that painting had belonged to Rose, her mother, once upon a time; a gift from the original Celeste. A legal one, even.

But a local entrepreneur had taken advantage when Rose was hurting for money, given her a loan, and then extorted her into handing over the painting.

"I'm not a thief," Celeste says bluntly. "I'm normal; I studied accounting in school. I'm just loyal to my family, and I'm not afraid to be a little vengeful." It's a sentiment Viktor can empathize with, and when he looks at Yuuri, he's chewing on his lip, brow furrowed, and Viktor knows he's feeling it too.

In the end, though, they have to take her in.

"But," Yuuri says, "I'll see what I can do to have your mother's property returned."

Celeste smiles briefly. "Thanks," she says. "I appreciate it. It's in my bedroom." Her gaze fixes on Viktor suddenly, sharp and bright. "Vitya."

Viktor jolts. He doesn't remember her, but it seems she remembers him. "Yes?" He's hyper-aware of Yuuri's eyes on him, observing everything.

"Tell my mom—" She blinks, rapidly, before swiping her arm over her eyes. "Tell maman that I'm sorry."

"I will," Viktor says softly, and then Leo escorts her out the door.

 

"Well, that was exhausting," Viktor says with a shaky laugh when they get back to the office. It's six, which isn't exactly a late workday for them, but Yuuri bets that for Viktor, the drain was more emotional than anything else.

"Are you okay?" he asks, hesitant.

"What?" Viktor glances at him, face uncharacteristically open, before smiling brightly. "I'm fine, Yuuri. Why?"

Yuuri shakes his head. Just when he thinks Viktor's going to suddenly be _easy_ to understand, he remembers who he's dealing with. "Well, you might as well go home," he says after a minute. "Good job today."

Viktor flashes him another smile. "Thanks."

"No one expected us to solve a case on our first day together," Yuuri says. He laughs ruefully. "I'm not sure anyone expected us to solve anything at all, ever."

Viktor's smile gets broader. "So? Would you say the test drive was successful?"

Yuuri flushes. God, he can't believe he said that. "Yeah," he says, and if his voice is a little lower than he means it to be, well. Who's paying attention? "Yeah, I'd say so."

Viktor's gaze drops to the ground, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. If Yuuri didn't know better, he'd say Viktor looked almost _bashful_. "I'm glad."

He sounds sincere, and so unexpectedly sweet about it, that Yuuri finds himself, despite his better instincts, saying: "Viktor, do you have plans for dinner tonight?"

Viktor looks up at him dryly, then back down at his ankle, pointed.

"Yeah," Yuuri laughs, apologetic. "That was a stupid thing to say."

"Why do you ask?" Viktor asks.

Yuuri looks down at his toes, suddenly embarrassed. "Well..."

 

Phichit gets home from class a little late, having stayed after to comfort a teary student who was struggling to learn stops. Still, it worked out in the end, and he's whistling lightly when he gets home.

He'd gotten a text from Yuuri almost as soon as he left the rink: _Home already, brought someone home with me_. Phichit smiles in anticipation as he opens the door. "Yuuuri!" he calls out, heading into the kitchen. "I'm home! Is it Guang Hong or Leo this time, or did you adopt a new—oh!"

"Hi," Viktor Nikiforov says cheerfully, from where he's seated at their kitchen table.

"Hi?" Phichit responds, thrown. He looks over Viktor's head to see Yuuri, sitting on the counter and peering at him sheepishly. "Wow."

"Sorry," Yuuri says, rubbing the back of his neck. "We solved a big case, and I was just going to buy him dinner, but then..."

"I convinced him to bring me here instead," Viktor says brightly, shamelessly. "I wanted to meet you, and—" He looks around at the kitchen, taking in the cheerful clutter, the last of the day's sunlight filtering through the curtains. "I wanted to see what Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki is like when he's at home."

Yuuri flushes, looking at Phichit from under his long lashes. "Should I have warned you?"

"No, no!" Phichit says, a grin slowly forming on his face as he regains his composure. "No, this is—wow!" He sits down at the table and leans foward eagerly. "I'm a big fan," he says.

Viktor blinks, then bursts into surprised laughter.

" _Phichit_ ," Yuuri groans, covering his face. "He's a _criminal_."

Phichit shoots him a sly glance. "He's not just _any_ criminal," he says, and grins when Yuuri doesn't try to argue. When he turns back, Viktor looks a little bit confused, but simultaneously very smug. "Maybe I should have said that we're both big fans," Phichit adds, and Yuuri makes a very endearing, embarrassed whimper before hopping off the counter.

"I'm going to make dinner now," he says hurriedly, and Phichit doesn't bother to stifle his giggle.

"By the way," Viktor says, drawing Phichit's attention back to him, "I'm also a big fan of yours."

"Oh?" Phichit says, surprised and delighted. "So you follow figure skating, then?"

"Since I was a child," Viktor confirms. "I've also been keeping up with your instagram."

Phichit blinks, trying to figure out the logistics of a man wanted by federal agencies in several countries using social media. "Really?" He laughs, self-depricating. "Sorry, it's probably been a little boring lately."

"It's nice!" Viktor says, eyes crinkling with apparent sincerity.

Phichit's instagram, since he retired, has been approximately 20% food, 30% selfies with and videos of his students, and 50% Yuuri. He's pretty proud of it, but when his followers are used to photos of him jetsetting around the world, he's under no illusions about how exciting his newer content is.

Phichit hides a smile. "Oh? What do you like about it?" he asks, knowing.

Viktor freezes at his tone, then suddenly seems to find the succulents growing by the window completely fascinating. "The little kids are sweet," he says casually, but Phichit's no fool.

"Hmm." He stands up, and Viktor looks up at him, wary. "Do you want some tea, Viktor?"

Viktor's face clears, discomfort shifting to faint surprise. "That would be very nice, thank you."

Phichit huffs out a quiet laugh and goes over to the cabinet to grab three mugs. He has to reach around Yuuri to do it, and Yuuri shoots him a look of nervous excitement. "He's something, huh?" Yuuri says under his breath.

Phichit kisses him on the corner of his mouth. "Feel free to bring him by more often."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They settle into a smooth routine easily—almost alarmingly so. It should be harder, Yuuri thinks, right? It should be a lot harder for him to go from hunting Viktor down to hunting other criminals down together. Viktor's a con man, a cheat, a thief and a liar, and it should be _so much harder_ , no matter how beautiful and inspiring Yuuri finds him, to be his friend.
> 
> But god, it's so easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clenches fist* PINING
> 
> ty to plalligator for looking this over for me <3333 love u babe

They settle into a smooth routine easily—almost alarmingly so. It should be harder, Yuuri thinks, right? It should be a lot harder for him to go from hunting Viktor down to hunting other criminals down together. Viktor's a con man, a cheat, a thief and a liar, and it should be _so much harder_ , no matter how beautiful and inspiring Yuuri finds him, to be his friend.

But god, it's so easy.

They make a great team, him and Viktor. They work smoothly, beautifully together, right off the bat. Maybe the years of studying Viktor has made Yuuri think like him, or maybe it's just—fate. It doesn't hurt that Viktor is a brilliant mind, which is maybe the least unexpected thing about this whole arrangement. Plus he has the connections and lived experience that no one in the FBI does, and unlike most CIs, he's pretty much working voluntarily.

Yuuri isn't an idiot, so he knows that Viktor can't be handling being captive nearly as well he pretends, but it _is_ true that Viktor let himself get caught. He was in Russia; they'd never have found him if he didn't use a known alias on that flight to New York, and Viktor Nikiforov doesn't make sloppy mistakes like that.

Yuuri just wishes he knew why.

Viktor fits in perfectly in the office too: he morphs overnight into a big-brotherly influence that Leo and Guang Hong thrive under, while at the same time charming his way into Celestino's good graces. Yuuri had been working on Celestino for months, trying to get him to agree to the deal with Viktor, and even after it was done, Celestino still had reservations. But Viktor comes along and after one long closed-door talk in Celestino's office, the two of them had come out smiling, comfortable.

And then there's outside the office.

"Yuuri," Phichit says, loud to try to get his attention, and Yuuri wonders how many times he's had to say it.

"Hmm?"

"Is everything okay?" Phichit asks, concerned. "You seem distracted."

Yuuri wills down the flush that wants to spring to his cheeks. "I'm fine," he says. "Just been a little busy these past few weeks.

Phichit laughs, knowing. "Viktor, huh?"

Yuuri bites his lip, glancing up over his desk and across the aisle to Viktor's, where the man himself sits, mainlining coffee and writing something down furiously. "He's working hard," he says. "It's impressive."

"You like him," Phichit says, very much not a question.

"He's nice," Yuuri hedges.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Phichit," Yuuri whines, and because he has awful luck, that's when Viktor chooses to glance up from his paper, spotting the phone at his ear and flashing him a curious smile. Yuuri's eyes widen and he hastily looks back down at his computer. "Shit," he mutters under his breath, and stands up. Now's as good a time as any to take a bathroom break.

Phichit's laughing in his ear. "Yuuri, sweetheart," he says. "And you thought you'd get over him once you caught him."

"It's _nothing_ ," Yuuri hisses, ducking into the bathroom. "It's not even a crush, it's just—infatuation. He's charming and handsome and that's _it_."

"Yuuri," Phichit says, unimpressed, "if I have a crush on him, there's no _way_ you don't."

"You—" Yuuri stops mid-pace. "You have a crush on him?"

"Yuuri?"

Yuuri freezes, eyes flying to the door, where Viktor stands, hesitant. "Viktor."

Viktor frowns. "Everything okay?"

Yuuri wets his lips nervously. "I'll talk to you later, okay, Phichit?"

"Don't freak out," Phichit warns. "If you freak out, I'm coming down there to the office to yell at you."

That, finally, makes Yuuri crack a smile. "Yeah, okay. Love you."

"Love you too," Phichit says, and hangs up.

"Sorry about that," Yuuri says to Viktor with forced casualness. "Didn't want to disturb everyone with my personal call."

Viktor doesn't look convinced. "You seemed upset."

"No, no," Yuuri says hastily, because he wasn't really upset, just—a little worked up. "I'm fine."

"Okay," Viktor says slowly. Then he smiles, innuendo-laden, and it's like everything's back to normal. "So, who does Phichit have a crush on?"

Yuuri panics. He heard that? "No one you know," he lies, the first thing he thinks of.

Viktor's smile falters for a second, before it comes back, full-force. "Yuuuuri," he sings. "I thought we were partners! Partners don't keep secrets from each other, right?"

"Viktor," Yuuri chides, rolling his eyes. "Tell me all the secrets I know you have, and then we'll talk, okay?"

Viktor laughs, abashed. "Fair. Hey, Yuuri," he says, perking up, "can I come over for dinner tonight? I think Lilia's getting tired of me, and I haven't seen Phichit in a while."

Yuuri wants to say yes—feels a rush of warmth, as he always does, that Viktor likes them enough to ask to see them more—but right now he's feeling too confused about everything, composure too shaken. "Sorry, Viktor," he lies again, trying to sound light, airy. "Date night, you know?"

Viktor's eyes widen. "Oh! Of course, forget I said anything." He grins and slips back out of the bathroom.

Yuuri stares at him, his stomach tight with something between anxiety and...butterflies? "Idiot," he chastises himself, and turns on the tap to splash water on his face.

 

"Fuck," Viktor exhales, sitting down heavily at his desk and dropping his head into his hands. He thought he had this under control, but evidently not.

So Phichit has a crush on some guy? That's fine, it's none of Viktor's business. And so what if Yuuri's not angry about it? Polyamory isn't something Viktor's unfamiliar with. Besides, Phichit's not the type to agonize over social mores, and Yuuri—ha, Yuuri's no prude either. It's fine, it makes sense, _it's fine_.

"Stupid, stupid," Viktor mutters, thumping his fists against his forehead. To think the only reason Yuuri didn't want Viktor was because he was married; to think that if he and Phichit wanted someone else, it would be Viktor first. He's only known them properly for a few weeks, so why did he even try kidding himself?

Oh, well, he won't hold onto that hope any longer. It's good enough that they seem to want him as a friend, to trust him in their home. It's more than he expected, to be honest.

It's probably more than he deserves.

 

Phichit takes a cab to the restaurant Yuuri texted him the address for. It's classy, but not too formal, so both of them—Yuuri in his unobtrusive federal agent suit, and Phichit still in the tight jeans and tailored sweater from the magazine shoot—will fit in.

"Hi," Yuuri greets him when Phichit finds the table. He stands up with a sweet smile and kisses Phichit, his hand warm on Phichit's elbow, before sitting back down.

"Not that I mind," Phichit says, gesturing at their surroundings, "but why the sudden romantic gesture?"

Yuuri laughs, sheepish. "I, uh—may have blown Viktor off by implying we had plans, and then..." He grimaces.

"And then you felt bad about lying, so you decided to retroactively make it true?" Phichit asks, arching an eyebrow, and Yuuri flushes.

"I know, it's stupid," he groans. "I don't know what I was thinking, but he wanted to come home with me and I felt...weird."

"Good-weird?"

" _Weird_ -weird." Yuuri adjusts his glasses with a sigh, a nervous gesture. "I felt like he'd be able to see through me in a heartbeat. And besides, I wanted to talk to you first."

Phichit tilts his head, gestures to his own chest innocently. "Me?"

Yuuri fixes him with an unamused look. "A crush?"

"Ah," Phichit says, unabashed. "Yes?"

"You could at least pretend to be embarrassed!" Yuuri says, but he's laughing.

"Why should I?" Phichit asks, grinning back. "Are you?"

Yuuri bites his lip, looking down. "...yes?"

"Well you shouldn't!" Phichit leans back in his chair. "I mean, he's very handsome—"

"True," Yuuri allows.

"And I'm pretty sure your dedication is 90% why you were able to catch him."

Yuuri flushes. "Okay, maybe."

"Plus," Phichit continues, "I'm _also_ pretty sure he'd be up for it if you wanted to."

"What?" Yuuri stares at him. "No, no, I can't—"

"Why _not_?"

Yuuri's shaking his head, adamant. "I'm the one keeping him out of prison. The potential for abuse of power alone would be...unforgivable."

Phichit starts to protest, but then stops because...well. It's a valid point. "Okay," he sighs, "but—hypothetically, if you wanted to—"

"We."

"What?"

Yuuri smiles at him briefly. "Even hypothetically, it should be 'we'."

Phichit brings his hand to his chest. " _Yuuri_ ," he says, "how romantic!"

Yuuri rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he says, but his cheeks are still red.

"Don't 'whatever' me," Phichit says, "we're going to talk about this."

Yuuri's eyes widen. "Phichit—"

Phichit flags down their server and says brightly, "Hi! Would you mind bringing us the wine list? I think we're going to be here for a little while."

Yuuri groans, but doesn't bother to protest.

 

Viktor is also drinking. He's drinking a lot, actually. It's cliched and melodramatic and probably irresponsible, but well—here he is, halfway through a bottle of wine, pining. Miserably.

Normally, when he's feeling like this, he calls one of his friends and goes out, gets lost in music and lights and crowds. But all of his friends are in a different country now, and Viktor can't leave his radius. He knows if he does, Yuuri gets an immediate notification. And, Viktor thinks bitterly, he wouldn't want to interrupt their _date_ , now would he?

Maybe that's not fair, but he's drunk. It's allowed.

Viktor pours himself another glass, and wonders what would happen if he showed up late to work tomorrow, hungover. Yuuri's been so accommodating, so nice, even though he's supposed to be keeping Viktor in line. Would that make a difference, Viktor slacking on the job? Would it finally make him get angry?

Anger would probably be a blessing, to be honest; a reminder of their respective positions, a boundary to keep Viktor from getting...confused, again. He knows that at some point, he'd made the decision to give up everything to see Yuuri, and that he must have had a reason, but it feels like so long ago.

He's starting to wonder, now, even though it's _far_ too late, whether he's made the right decision.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Predictably, in the morning Viktor has a raging headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies that my updating schedule is so inconsistent! last week was terrible for my productivity for some reason :( but i'm back now, and hopefully things will be smoother from here on out!!
> 
> this chapter was 100% inspired by the various "neal gets sick and peter and/or el has to take care of him" fics that graced white collar fandom back in the day, so enjoy this tiny slice of h/c <3
> 
> this chapter is unbetaed, so if you see any errors, please let me know!!

Predictably, in the morning Viktor has a raging headache, so he wears sunglasses to the office and keeps them on inside. He's a little more nauseous than he expected but—well, it was a lot of wine.

"Are you okay?" Yuuri asks him, brow creased with concern.

"Fine," Viktor says, trying for lightness. "Just a headache, you know how it is."

Yuuri frowns, and Viktor's smile falters a little. "You're sure? You don't look so good."

Viktor laughs, surprised into sincerity. "Wow! Thanks, Yuuri."

"No, no—" Yuuri says, pained. "That's not what I—"

"I know," Viktor says, awkwardness creeping in. He feels a little guilty that Yuuri's worrying about him, when Viktor feeling like shit is nobody's fault but his own. "I knew what you meant, and thank you, but I'm fine."

"If you're sure," Yuuri says, sounding unconvinced. Viktor smiles again, bright, and hopes that he drops it.

Three hours later, though, Viktor's somehow feeling even _worse_. His headache has shifted to just a dull throb at his temples, but now his face hurts, his body hurts, his throat hurts—everything hurts, really. He's having difficult concentrating on the cold case file he's reviewing, and he thinks he might've snapped at Guang Hong a few minutes ago when he tried to ask Viktor if he had lunch plans.

"Ugh," Viktor groans, dropping his head wearily into his hand.

There's a tiny thump, and Viktor looks to his right to see a steaming mug on his desk, between the scattered binders and papers.

"Peppermint," Yuuri says softly, sitting down on the corner of Viktor's desk. "You looked like you needed it."

Viktor bites his lip, reaching for the mug and inhaling the steam wafting off of it. It's nice, soothing; it clears his head. "Thanks."

"I think you should head home," Yuuri says.

Viktor shakes his head, and then lets out a pathetic noise at the spike of pain that induces. "I'll be fine," he says, "just give me a minute."

Yuuri purses his lips. "You're not doing anyone any good like this."

"I can still work," Viktor says indignantly. "I'm not sick."

Yuuri raises his eyebrows. "Viktor," he says, so carefully it sets Viktor's teeth on edge. "It's okay to—"

"I'm hungover," Viktor says irritably. "I'm not sick, I'll be fine, so just—stop being so nice, okay?" Yuuri's eyes widen, and Viktor looks away, down at his tea, waiting for Yuuri's reaction.

"No."

Viktor looks up at him, taken aback. "What?"

Yuuri's eyes are narrowed thoughtfully. "No, that's not it." He leans forward and lifts his hand, pressing the back of it gently against Viktor's forehead, the other holding Viktor still by the shoulder. "You're burning up."

Viktor is overheating, it's true, but that's just because of the feeling of Yuuri's hands on him, not anything else. "I'm fine," he says again, weakly, a broken record.

"Do you want me to get a thermometer and prove it to you?" Yuuri says lightly, but underneath, there's a layer of steel.

Viktor swallows.

Yuuri frowns at him again. "Go home." He arches an eyebrow. "I could make it an order, if that would help?"

"Funny," Viktor laughs shakily, shrugging Yuuri's hand off of his shoulder. Yuuri startles and takes both of his hands far away, embarrassment evident on his face. Viktor doesn't let himself mourn the loss. "I'll go, don't worry. It wouldn't do to get everyone in the office sick, right?"

Yuuri frowns. "Viktor—"

Viktor stands up, ignoring the headrush that gives him. He sets the mug, still mostly full, on the desk. "See you on Monday, Yuuri."

 

He's sitting on the couch in Lilia's living room, wrapped up in three blankets, watching cartoons and miserably drinking mint tea, when the doorbell sounds.

Viktor groans, pained. He tosses back the blankets and levers himself off the couch. He sets the still-full mug down on the coffee table (it didn't taste right, anyway), mutes the tv, and shuffles over to the door.

"Who is it?" he calls, because when she'd left for—wherever she is tonight, Lilia had told him not to open the door for anyone unidentified. Apparently, despite not being a criminal herself, she's made a few enemies of her own.

"It's me," he gets in response. "Phichit."

Viktor opens the door. "Wow," he says, trying to hide his surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Phichit blinks, and Viktor hastily backtracks.

"Not that, uh—not that I'm not happy to see you," Viktor says, and then frowns trying to puzzle out his own double negatives. Damn, his head hurts.

Phichit's smile is edged with light concern, now. "Can I come in?" He hefts the bag in his right hand up so Viktor can see it. "I made you soup."

Viktor lets him in silently, too feverish to trust the words that might come out of his mouth.

"Sit down," Phichit says. "I'll just go put these in bowls."

"Wait," Viktor says quickly. "Let me help. I wouldn't be a very good host if I let you do all the work."

Phichit smiles at him, but there's no give in his expression. "You're not my host," he says. "You're my friend, and you're sick. Go sit down."

Viktor sits. "Friend, huh," he says under his breath.

"Got a problem with that?" Phichit asks cheekily, passing by him on his way to the kitchen.

Viktor feels his cheek warm, and he stares at Phichit's retreating back. Damn. "We've only known each other for a few weeks," he calls weakly.

"I've been following your career for three years," Phichit replies dryly. "Through Yuuri, of course. And you, Mr. Lilac Fairy—"

Viktor closes his eyes. Whoops.

Phichit comes back into the living room, two steaming bowls balanced carefully in his hands. "Don't think I didn't notice that account that keeps commenting on my posts, even the ones that are just the back of Yuuri's head. I bet you know me even better than I think."

Viktor bites his lip. "Those pictures are my favorite," he admits.

"I know." Phichit's voice is amused, teasing, and Viktor isn't equipped to deal with this right now.

"You don't have to stay," he says, smiling bright and casual. "You're very kind for bringing me sustenance, but I'll be all right on my own."

Phichit rolls his eyes. "Don't try that with me," he says, sitting down next to Viktor. "I'm eating the soup I made and then I'm watching hockey on your tv."

"It's Lilia's tv," Viktor says inanely, and Phichit hums.

"You can't fool me, Nikiforov," he says sweetly. "I see straight through you."

Viktor blinks, and then he frowns. "I'm a world-class con man," he says indignantly. "I could fool you if I wanted to."

Phichit snorts. "And I'm a professional athlete," he says. "Which means I have plenty of experience with the long con."

Viktor stares at him, thrown off-balance.

"Eat your soup," Phichit says firmly, and Viktor picks up his spoon.

The soup is delicious, flavorful enough he can taste it even through his dulled senses, spicy enough to clear his aching nose. Viktor swallows, and his ears pop. He groans with relief. "Marry me?"

Phichit laughs, and reaches over to grab the remote.

 

Yuuri sighs wearily as he lets himself into the house. "I'm home," he groans, but gets no response. Frowning, he calls Phichit. It rings a few times, and then goes straight to voicemail.

Before he can worry, though, his phone buzzes with a text.

(8:14) at viktor's  
(8:14) can't call he's sleeping  
(8:15) be home soon

Yuuri smiles, warmth flooding his chest. He knows when he's sick, Phichit will wrap him up in blankets and cuddle him without even being asked. He wonders if he's doing the same with Viktor, and then can't get the image out of his head.

He shakes his head firmly. "Enough of that," he mutters to himself.

Poking his head into the fridge, he spies some leftover pizza and pulls it out. Yuuri throws it in the oven to reheat and then sits down at the kitchen table, pulling out his phone again.

He missed a message from Phichit earlier that day, apparently. Well, it had been a busy day. After sending Viktor home, they'd received a new case regarding a string of robberies at local galleries, all seemingly centered around one young artist. Unfortunately, the artist was out of the country, and the owner of the gallery where the most recent theft took place was _supremely_ unhelpful, and—ugh. Just thinking about it makes Yuuri want to bang his head against the table. He opens the text.

It's a screenshot of one of Phichit's recent instagram posts: Yuuri, asleep at this very spot on the kitchen table, head pillowed on his elbows and files scattered, carefully out-of-focus, around him. His tea mug is sitting on one of them, and Yuuri winces, remembering how he'd found a faded brown ring on four very important papers that morning. Peering closer, he realizes that he's drooling.

" _Phichit_ ," he whines out loud, covering his face. How embarrassing.

There's another image in the text, and he zooms in one it to see that it's a comment, from _purple-fae-2003_. _wow~! what a beautiful man ;)_ , it says, and Yuuri flushes and then closes out of the app. Why would Phichit send him this?

Phichit takes that moment to call him, and Yuuri picks up.

"Yuuri!" Phichit says. "I'm headed home now, but I wanted to ask if you saw my text from earlier."

"I'm looking at it now," Yuuri says, bewildered. "Phichit, why did you send me a comment from some preteen with terrible taste?"

"Look closer at the name," Phichit says, amusement clear in his voice.

Yuuri looks. Wait a—'Purple Fae', of course. "Christ," he says, wonderingly, and Phichit bursts into laughter. "That's so—"

"Subtle, right?" Phichit says, delighted.

"Not really," Yuuri responds, and finds himself laughing, too. It's just like Viktor, to hide in plain sight like that, behind a persona so ridiculous no one ever thinks to take it seriously. It's how he got away with so much from such a young age, hiding behind his Lilac Fairy alter ego. _Viktor_. Yuuri bites his lip. "How is he doing?"

"He's fine. Sleeping it off, mostly."

"That's good," Yuuri says, sighing with relief. "I was worried about him."

"I know," Phichit says softly. "Yuuri, are you sure you don't—"

"No," Yuuri cuts him off.

Phichit's pout is audible when he protests, "You didn't even let me finish!"

"I know what you're going to say," Yuuri says, "and I told you, I _can't_." His voice has risen, and it echoes around the empty kitchen.

"He likes you," Phichit says. "A lot."

Yuuri shakes his head. "You're wrong."

"He _does_."

"No, he—" Yuuri makes a frustrated noise. "He's a con man, Phichit. I'd like think we're friends, but a part of me always knows that to him it's just—a game, at best."

Phichit goes silent. "You really think that."

"I know him better than you do," Yuuri reminds him, and Phichit huffs out a breath. "I'm not saying I don't trust him to do his job, or that I don't...like him," he finishes feebly. "But you don't get as good as Viktor Nikiforov without treating everything like a challenge to be won." It's all of the anxious thoughts Yuuri's been bottling up, and now that he's faced with a reason to share them, they come tumbling out. "He let me catch him because he was bored, because he was the best and he knew it and he was _bored_."

The hand not holding his phone has clenched into a fist on the tabletop, and Yuuri loosens it slowly.

"Hey," Phichit says gently. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine," Yuuri says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's just—it's been a long day."

Phichit makes a sympathetic noise. "I'll be home in a few minutes. Love you, Yuuri."

Yuuri manages a smile. "I love you too," he says. Phichit hangs up, and Yuuri presses the phone to his forehead and sighs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor has the whole weekend to stew over his inconvenient illness and his even more inconvenient feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have some more feelings! and some more plot! this chapter puts us pretty close to the climax of the fic, but that itself should take a few chapters :) thanks for hanging in there y'all <3
> 
> as always, eternal love and thank yous to grim_lupine for looking this over for me :') <33

Viktor has the whole weekend to stew over his inconvenient illness and his even more inconvenient feelings. He's used to being in love with Yuuri; he's had more than enough time to get used it. He's even gotten used to the particular blend of guilt and resignation that overwhelms him whenever he thinks of how much he wants Yuuri, given that Yuuri is—well, married.

What Viktor _isn't_ used to is being in love with Phichit, too. Of course he liked him from the start, because Phichit is the kind of person it's impossible to not like. A force of nature, but a kind, generous, smiling one. Still, those feelings were casual enough—friendly, easy enough to compartmentalize.

Viktor stares balefully at the empty tupperware on his counter, which formerly contained Phichit's homemade soup, feeling warm and terrified in a way that is anything but casual.

At work, he might be able to distract himself, but at home, frustrated longing claws its way under his skin, itching. When he almost snaps at Lilia when she knocks on his door at noon (she glares and sweeps away without a word, and he cringes guiltily, feeling about two feet tall), and then shortly after catches himself eyeing the bottle of vodka in the top cabinet, he shakes himself. This won't do.

So Viktor finds another way to distract himself, the oldest, most familiar way, the way that never fails to work: he paints.

He strips down to his pajama pants and takes the easel by the window, opening the curtains until he can see the building next door; beyond, a hint of skyline.

Viktor has missed this. Maybe, he realizes as he's filling in color into the sky, blue on yellow on white, even more than he misses forging or stealing. He can't remember the last time he just _painted_ like this, not for a job or practicing for a job. Just for himself.

Oh wait, he does remember—it was a year ago. A single figure dancing, details barely there, but enough to make Viktor ache as he remembered the feeling of holding him in his arms just the week prior. It made him sigh every time he looked at it, like a lovesick teenager.

Viktor drops the paintbrush with a clatter, and rubs his forehead, sighing. He gets up and goes to make himself some tea; his head hurts.

 

It's well into the evening, probably nine or so, when Viktor gets the call.

"Hello?"

Yuuri's voice is—terrible. Strained and quavering and sharp, like he's clenching his teeth. "I need you to come over right now," he says.

"What's wrong?" Viktor asks, his own heart rate picking up, because if something's made Yuuri sound like _that_ , then it must be bad. "What's happened?"

Silence.

"Yuuri?"

"They took him," Yuuri chokes out, and Viktor's blood runs cold. "The house was empty when I got home, and there was a note on the kitchen table saying that they—they have him, hidden somewhere, but they haven't said what they _want_ and I—"

"Yuuri," Viktor says, trying to pitch his voice low and soothing even past his own panic. "It's going to be okay. I'm coming over right now, and we're going to find him, all right?"

"Okay," Yuuri replies, and then sucks in a shaking breath. "Okay."

He hangs up, and Viktor barely spares a second to throw a threadbare t-shirt on before he's out the door and running.

 

"Yuuri!" Viktor calls breathlessly, when he bursts through the open front door. He stumbles to a halt, catching himself on the frame.

Yuuri, sitting at the foot of the stairs with his elbows on his knees, looks up. His gaze is flat and distant, eyes red-rimmed. Everything about him looks hollow and brittle. "Viktor?"

Viktor falls to his knees before Yuuri, grabbing Yuuri's chilled hands in his own. "Are you all right?" he asks urgently.

"I'm fine," Yuuri says blankly. "Why?"

Viktor stares at him, and Yuuri blinks, seeming to come back to himself. His face crumples, and he yanks his hands out of Viktor's grasp, covering his face. "Yuuri," Viktor says helplessly.

"Don't—" Yuuri says, muffled and wet, and Viktor shuts up. He holds his breath until Yuuri drops his hands. "I'm okay."

 _It's okay if you're not_ Viktor wants to say, or even _Please don't lie to me_ , but instead he asks, "What can I do?"

Yuuri takes a deep breath and releases it. "The note's in the kitchen. Can you go look at it?"

"Of course," Viktor says, gripping the banister and hauling himself up. Yuuri squints at him.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," Viktor reassures. "Just a little tired still, you know how it is."

Yuuri frowns, brow furrowing slightly. "Yeah," he says, subdued.

In the kitchen, Guang Hong is taking pictures of the kitchen while Leo bombards a nearby crime scene tech with questions. When he catches sight of Viktor, Guang Hong smiles and waves weakly, before pointing to the kitchen table by the window. It's empty except for a small vase of flowers, and handwritten paper note.

As soon as Viktor looks at it closely, he inhales sharply.

"What?" Guang Hong asks, and sets down his camera, coming to look over Viktor's shoulder.

"Shit," Viktor says numbly, bending in closer to make sure. "I know that handwriting."

 

His name is Ivan, and he's a thief Viktor partnered with a scant handful of times when he was a teenager. The last time, Viktor found out Ivan was planning to double-cross him, and like the stupid, prideful child he was, he turned the tables and took the painting, the credit, and the money all for himself, humiliating Ivan in the process. Ivan had never forgotten that, though after a few years, he at least stopped actively trying to sabotage Viktor at every turn.

Six months before Viktor turned himself in, though, that changed, when Viktor accidentally scheduled a job for the same night that Ivan's crew was doing the same. Their targets had coincided, a statue that was on display in the museum for that weekend only. Viktor had a forgery to replace the original with and everything—he couldn't just _not use it_.

He tells Yuuri all of this, and then shakes his head, slow. "He must have found out about Phichit's connection to me somehow," he says. "But how—"

Yuuri's eyes widen, and he pulls out his phone. Viktor watches in consternation as Yuuri opens up instagram, finding Phichit's account quickly. The most recent photo is an artistic shot of the soup Phichit made Viktor, the previous day, and Viktor sucks in a breath.

"I don't see how that would—"

"Wait," Yuuri says, and swipes to reveal another photo in the same post, this one of Viktor's sleeping profile, recognizable instantly even with the woolen blanket tucked under his chin. "There."

"Oh, no," Viktor says, horrified. "He hadn't said anything about me before, so I thought—I thought he _knew_ —"

"He's normally careful," Yuuri says, "but I guess something must have changed."

Viktor lifts his head to look at Yuuri's profile, tense and contemplative. "Yuuri?" he asks.

Yuuri chews his lip. "This, paired with the comments you've been leaving...you said Ivan knew you when you were young, so that means he could have put the username together with your old alias just as well as we did."

So it's Viktor's fault, too. Christ. "I'm sorry," he chokes out. Yuuri says nothing, and Viktor hesitates. "Yuuri?"

Yuuri exhales sharply, pocketing his phone. "I'm going to go to the office," he says. "Try to find out where he might be hidden."

"I'll come with you," Viktor says, shoving down the miserable guilt eating at him. He has more important things to focus on right now.

"Wait," Yuuri says, holding out a hand. "There was no reason for him to handwrite that note," he says slowly. "He could have easily typed it, and he had to have known that handwriting it would give you a way to identify him."

Viktor stills, not liking where this is going. "Yuuri—"

"So that means," Yuuri barrels on, "that the only reason he would do it is to lead you to him on purpose. So it's a trap, for you."

"Yes but—" Viktor attempts.

Yuuri looks him in the eye. "Go back home, Viktor," he says. "Tell Lilia enough of what's going on so she knows to be careful, and then stay there until we've found him."

"Let me help you, Yuuri," Viktor begs. "I know I can—I know Ivan, I know his methods, I can help you figure out—"

Yuuri shakes his head firmly, cutting him off. "No," he says, with finality. "You're staying away."

He tries to leave, but Viktor grabs his sleeve as he walks past. "Yuuri, _please_. You know I can help."

"No," Yuuri says again, and he doesn't raise his voice, but he doesn't have to. The weariness in it does the job of stopping Viktor in his tracks well enough. "I know you mean well, Viktor, but I can't chance it." Behind his glasses, his eyes cut away, unreadable. "Please stay home; you'll just make everything worse."

Viktor lets go of his sleeve numbly, and Yuuri pushes past. Viktor lets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! the kidnapping plot was stolen from actual white collar, where el gets kidnapped in season like....five? i think? but this is a lot more accelerated and a lot less manufactured emotional angst


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phichit is angry and worried and fucking terrified, but he's also very, very bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick update!!! what is a consistent schedule, never heard of it :) the next update should also be relatively quick, because i've had it planned for a very, very long time. i'm super hyped to share it with y'all <3
> 
> thank you as always to grim_lupine to looking this over <3333

Phichit is angry and worried and fucking terrified, but he's also very, very bored. "Hey," he says for the fifth time to the guy (a kid, really, can't be any older than nineteen) who's guarding him.

The kid looks up from his newspaper—a newspaper! Who reads _newspapers_ anymore?—to glare suspiciously at Phichit. "What."

"I'm thirsty," Phichit says, smiling winningly. "Can I have something to drink?"

Reluctantly, the kid reaches down and fishes out a plastic bottle of water from the case on the floor next his stool. He tosses it over to Phichit. It lands a foot away, and then rolls half-heartedly the rest of the distance, coming to a stop against Phichit's shoes. Phichit looks at it and then glances back up at the kid. "Got anything stronger?" he asks dryly.

The kid glowers further and turns around so he's no longer facing Phichit. Phichit sighs and thumps his head back against the wall. He grabs the bottle between his feet and lifts his legs until he can reach it with his hands, tied together at the wrist in front of him.

He's contemplating saying _Hey, kid, you like skating?_ just to break the silence, when there's a commotion outside the bolted door to their tiny windowless room. Voices, raised, and then audible curses.

The kid shoots to his feet, right as someone pounds on the door.

"Wh-who is it?" he calls nervously.

"Open the fucking door, Nikolai," someone orders, and the kid (Nikolai?) hastily unbolts it.

"What the fuck, Alexander," Nikolai says, as he opens it. "You know Ivan said to keep the door closed until he got here."

"Change of plans," Alexander replies grimly, dragging a struggling figure behind him. Phichit blinks, and the figure resolves itself into an agitated, dishevelled Viktor Nikiforov.

Alexander throws Viktor to the floor and Viktor rises up onto his knees immediately, spitting furiously, "You bastards, you had no right to bring him into this." He starts getting up onto his feet, and both Alexander and Nikolai back away, wary.

Phichit strains forward against the rope tying him to the metal bar on the wall behind him. "Viktor? What are you doing here?"

Viktor whips around to face him, overbalances, and falls back down to one knee. Phichit sees that his arms are tied thoroughly behind his back, and his stomach drops. "I came to find you," Viktor says, and Phichit looks back at his face, open and concerned. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

"No," Phichit says. "Viktor, _why_ would you put yourself in danger like that?"

"What do you mean?" Viktor asks, blank. "I knew where you were, so I had to—"

"Yes," Phichit snaps, "but now they have us both, which isn't exactly an improvement in my book."

Viktor scowls. "What, was I supposed to leave you alone?"

"You should've let the _federal agents_ do their jobs," Phichit hisses, concern giving way entirely into anger.

Viktor opens his mouth to retort, but then Alexander gestures roughly and Nikolai jumps forward, yanking Viktor toward the same metal bar Phichit's tied to. Viktor turns his head and glares with a ferociousness Phichit's never seen on him before. He looks like a completely different person, and Phichit jolts.

"Get your hands off me," Viktor snarls, and Phichit can see Nikolai almost do it.

But then he seems to remember that he's ostensibly the one in control and snorts, saying something derisive in Russian. He ties Viktor's waist none too gently to the bar, so his and Phichit's sides are pressed together. Then he and Alexander leave, shutting the door and, it sounds like, bolting it from the outside.

Phichit watches carefully as Viktor deflates, his shoulders slumping. "Well," he says. "Here we are."

Phichit snorts, something inside him relaxing at Viktor's sheepish tone. "Think they'll come and find us soon?"

Viktor shrugs one shoulder. "No idea," he says. "I left Yuuri as much information as I could, but I was in a bit of a rush."

"So you're saying we're stuck here," Phichit checks, and sighs when Viktor smiles ruefully.

"I think we're alone for now, though," Viktor says. "I heard them saying Ivan was driving in from somewhere? He's not going to be here for an hour or so, and they won't do anything until then."

Phichit stills. "Do you expect them to hurt us after he gets here?"

Viktor chews his lip. "I don't know," he says honestly. "I don't think so? Ivan's a shitheel, but he's not especially violent, unless he has to be."

"Do you know what he wants?" Phichit asks.

"I have...an idea," Viktor says slowly. "I think the less you know, though, the better."

Phichit wants to argue, but he supposes this—kidnapping, career criminals—is Viktor's element. He'll just have to follow Viktor's lead, here.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him, and he sits up straight. "Viktor," he says. "Your anklet, they can track it, right?" Viktor looks away, sheepish again, and Phichit narrows his eyes. "Viktor."

Viktor sighs and tugs up the cuff of his right pant leg, revealing a woolen sock and nothing else. "Yuuri ordered me to stay home," he says, "but I needed to find you, and I knew if he was notified that I broke my radius, he'd find me and stop me and so I—just cut the anklet."

"Jesus," Phichit says, closing his eyes. "I want to be mad at you, but I'm not sure I wouldn't have done the same thing."

"For Yuuri," Viktor says, nodding with understanding. "Yeah, I'm sure you would."

_I know what I said_ , Phichit wants to tell him, but he decides that that conversation might be better saved for later.

"Hey," Viktor says, perking up. "Since we're here for a little while, I've been meaning to ask—how did you and Yuuri meet?"

Phichit blinks at him. "You really want to know?"

"Of course!" Viktor says with a smile. "I find you two fascinating. Also my head still feels like it's been stuffed with steel wool, so I'd love a distraction." Phichit frowns at that, and Viktor must misinterpret it because he adds, "Ah, that is, if you're comfortable telling me."

Phichit huffs. "Of course I am," he says. "Hm, it's a bit of a long story, though."

"We've got the time," Viktor says eagerly, and Phichit grins.

"Okay," he says, "sure. Let's see—I guess I should start with me. I got into skating when I was really young, but since the sport doesn't have a huge presence in Thailand, I ended up moving to Detroit when I was fifteen to train." Memory softens his grin into a smile, nostalgic. "And that's where I met Yuuri."

"In Detroit?"

Phichit shakes his head. "At the rink. He was training too."

Viktor's eyes widen. "Yuuri skated?"

"Yep," Phichit says, and then sighs dreamily. "He was so good, too—but he had a couple injuries in juniors that kept him from really getting noticed, and then after a while he just...got tired, I think. He told me he started dreading practice every day, and that he wished he could just take more classes instead."

"Ah," Viktor says, sympathetic.

"It's fine, though," Phichit reassures him, "although I did get a little worried when he told me he was planning to move back to Japan." He rolls his eyes, remembering. "He announced it so casually, too. I remember he said that he didn't have anything keeping him here, and then he was _so confused_ when I got upset."

Viktor chuckles. "Sounds about right."

Phichit snorts. "Anyway, that's when I kissed him for the first time."

" _Oh_ ," Viktor breathes, suddenly paying a lot more attention, and Phichit giggles.

"I'm not giving you any more details than that," he says primly, "so don't get your hopes up."

Viktor sighs morosely. "Damn," he says.

Phichit hides his smile. "I kissed him to show him why I was so upset, and thankfully he finally picked up on all the hints I'd been dropping. Yuuri ended up deciding to stay, and then after graduating he enrolled in the FBI academy, and then—well, here we are."

"Here you are," Viktor says, and Phichit doesn't think he's imagining the fond relief in his voice. He feels it too; any one different choice in any of their lives, and maybe they wouldn't have met.

"How about you?" Phichit asks.

Viktor smiles, crooked. "How did I meet Yuuri?"

Phichit rolls his eyes. "No, I know that," he says. "I meant, how did you get where you are? International art thief, living legend, Interpol's most wanted, et cetera—it doesn't suit you."

"Really?" Viktor asks, obviously taken aback. "Why not?"

"When I first met you, with your reputation, I—I kept expecting you to be..." Phichit hesitates, trying to find the right word. "Colder," he settles on. "But you're not."

Viktor tips his head back against the wall and hums. "I used to be," he says, casually.

Phichit looks at him. "Yeah?"

"Mmhmm," Viktor says. "I thought I had to be—I was just a kid when I started, you know."

Oh, that's right. "How did that happen?" Phichit asks.

Viktor glances at him sidelong. "You're very nosy, you know that?"

"I know," Phichit says unapologetically. After all, turnabout is fair play. "So?"

"Well," Viktor says. "I wanted to be a skater when I was young, actually. But then my parents died."

"...oh," Phichit says, soft. "Fuck, I'm sorry, you don't have to—"

"No, it's fine," Viktor waves him off, still smiling. "It's been long enough. Anyway, I didn't really have any money, so that dream went out the window. A couple years later, I started stealing, and I did okay until I picked the wrong pocket."

Phichit leans forward, riveted, as Viktor settles into telling the story.

"I tried to steal the wallet of a notorious local criminal—succeeded, actually. That was Yakov, my mentor." He huffs out a laugh. "Luckily, he was impressed by how far I managed to get before he noticed, so instead of turning me in, or worse, he ended up taking me in and training me up."

"That's...nice," Phichit says hesitantly.

Viktor laughs again. "I know, it all sounds very seedy in hindsight, but Yakov has always been good to me. I think if I were in his place I would have murdered myself at least three times. But he put up with all my bullshit, despite yelling at me pretty much every minute, including—ah."

Phichit tilts his head. "Including?"

This time, when Viktor smiles, it comes out with a little twist to it, rueful. "Including turning myself in. Trashed all his hard work in one flight from Moscow to New York, but he..." He trails off, contemplative. "He barely even shouted. He just told me to be careful; that I might not be able to come back, this time."

There's not much Phichit can say to that, other than, "Why did you do it?"

Viktor seems to come back to himself, face smoothing over. He quirks an eyebrow at Phichit. "Why do you think?"

Phichit hums. "Yuuri says boredom."

"And you agree?" Viktor says, unreadable.

"A part of me, yeah?" Phichit says, and then makes a frustrated noise. "I don't know, you've never come off that way to me, otherwise there's no way I'd be bringing you soup and letting you sit at my kitchen table. But," he adds, "Yuuri knows you better, and you _are_ a con man."

"That's true," Viktor agrees. "Boredom, huh?"

Phichit shrugs. "Just trying to spice your life back up again."

"I suppose," Viktor says slowly, "that's close enough to the truth."

Phichit frowns. "I hope not," he says sharply. Viktor looks at him curiously, and Phichit continues, "I hope you'd know to be more careful with him than that."

Viktor, to Phichit's surprise, smiles very slightly. "You really think I could hurt Yuuri?"

Phichit shrugs. "You have a lot of power over him, you know. Sure, he's the federal agent, and you're the one in the anklet, but emotionally?" He looks down at his hands, twisting in their rope binds. "You could do a lot of damage."

"Wow," Viktor says, very quietly. "You really have no idea, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Phichit asks.

Viktor looks down at his feet, flexing his ankles back and forth absently. "I think," he says, voice carefully mild, "that you underestimate the effect Yuuri has on me."

"Maybe," Phichit says, unconvinced, "but Viktor, a good half of Yuuri's career has been spent studying you, admiring you. I mean," he says, "for at least a year before you met in August, he—"

"Wait," Viktor says. "What?"

Phichit frowns. "What's wrong?"

"In _August_ ," Viktor says in an odd voice. "When we met in August, you said."

"Yes," Phichit says, confused. "When you turned yourself in."

Viktor makes a small, muffled noise, that after a moment turns into a laugh—but which, Phichit notes with concern, contains very little mirth. "He didn't tell you," Viktor says, and then coughs. He's still sick, Phichit remembers absently, but right now—right now he has more important things to worry about.

"Viktor," he says, " _what_ are you talking about?"

"Phichit," Viktor responds, smiling at him crookedly. "Did you really think I dropped everything, travelled halfway around the world, and got myself arrested on purpose for someone I _hadn't met_? No," he says. "No, it wasn't the first time we met. It wasn't even the first time he caught me."

Phichit swallows past his suddenly very dry throat. "When?" he whispers.

"A year ago." Viktor hums. "Maybe a little longer. It was at a gala in some gallery—full of high-profile people and even more high-profile paintings. I was there to steal one of them, and Yuuri was there to..." He trails off, clears his throat.

"To catch you," Phichit says.

Viktor goes quiet.

Phichit nudges their elbows together. "Tell me," he urges.

"Are you sure?" Viktor asks, his voice subdued in a way that just makes Phichit feel even more like he should know. He needs to know.

"Tell me," he says again.

Viktor exhales. "All right," he says. "Well, like I said, it was at a gala in a gallery..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor sighs. "Yes, I remember the plan." Of course he does. It's all the same as usual: flirt with the curator, distract the guard, maybe the other way around; scope out security, get out early, leave a backdoor to come back at night.
> 
> Simple. Boring.
> 
> (A trip back in time to Chicago, May 2016)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE ARE, FINALLY, i've been waiting to write this for so looooong!! this chapter is a little longer than the others, but that's just because a lot of things are happening
> 
> warning this chapter for some slight violence, some involving guns, and sorta dubious consent of the undercover makeouts variety (no sex)

**Chicago, May 2016**

"Viktor, can you hear me?"

"Ah," Viktor says with a smile. "Yura, so good to hear your melodious—"

"I don't have time for your shit," Yuri growls from his earpiece. "Do you remember the plan?"

"I see Yakov is letting you come out and play," Viktor notes. "Don't worry, Yura, I'll make sure you don't screw up too badly."

Yuri scoffs, but doesn't bother answering further. Damn. It used to be so much easier to get a rise out of him.

Viktor sighs. "Yes, I remember the plan." Of course he does. It's all the same as usual: flirt with the curator, distract the guard, maybe the other way around; scope out security, get out early, leave a backdoor to come back at night.

Simple. Boring.

"And you'll stick to it, right?"

"Yes," Viktor says tiredly.

"Good," Yuri says. "Mila and Georgi are twenty minutes away if something goes wrong."

Viktor snorts. "Nothing ever goes wrong," he says, more bitterly than he intends to. It's stupid, to wish for catastrophe, but at least disasters are _interesting_.

_"Why do we have to do this job?" he asked, the month before when they started planning this. "Don't I have enough money?"_

_"Not everything is about you," Yakov responded flatly. "The three others working with you, for instance, and any other foolish teenagers I decide to take in."_

_Viktor grimaced, because he was right, but, "I just feel like a robot. There's no fun in anything anymore."_

_He knew it sounded childish, but he didn't know how to properly describe what he was really feeling. That every day he woke up at the same time, alone in his king-sized bed in his apartment, or whatever hotel or safe house they were in this time. He made his way through the day like machinery, smiling and laughing and teasing on autopilot, and then he went back home, still alone. He had used to go out in the nights, but he didn't have the energy anymore. At night, he lay awake for hours, before falling into a fitful sleep plagued with dreams that were more half-formed impressions than anything else: lingering melancholy, the bitter taste of exhaustion, a sharp longing._

_"Fun doesn't pay nearly as well as boring," Yakov said._

_Viktor wasn't sure, either, how to tell him he was worried that boredom was making him complacent, dulling his edges, and that one day it would get him caught. It wasn't the kind of thing Viktor admitted to._

_"Sure," he said instead. "You're right."_

"Your first step is to find the curator," Yuri directs him. He rattles off, "Lakshmi Subramanian, 47 year old Indian woman, 5 feet 11 inches, brown skin and eyes, gray and black hair."

Viktor scans the room with practiced casualness. "Hmm," he says. "I don't see her. But—" He brightens, spotting a nondescript figure hovering in the corner. "Will an assistant curator do?"

He can practically hear Yuri's frown. "I don't have anything on—"

"It's pretty crowded here tonight," Viktor notes. "I expect the gallery decided to play it safe and increase the event staff. I'm going to go talk to them."

He floats a little closer, snagging a glass of champagne from the server on his way. The assistant looks up when Viktor clears his throat, and then his eyes widen. Viktor smiles, disarming.

If anything, the man seems to get more unnerved. Maybe Viktor's losing his touch.

"Hi," Viktor says, holding out a hand. He rifles through his memory and reaches for the identity of the man he's supposed to be tonight. Investment banker and child of diplomats, plus long-time art collector, "Mikhail Fyodorov. How do you do?"

The man blinks, and then flushes prettily. Something inside of Viktor, something he feared had fallen dormant long ago, sits up and takes notice. "Yuuri," the man says. "Yuuri Nishigori." His voice is quiet but self-assured, and when he takes Viktor's hand, his grip is firm.

"A beautiful name," Viktor says, and in his ear, Yuri huffs.

"...thank you," Yuuri says hesitantly, but he seems pleased. Viktor lets himself privately be a little smug; not losing his touch after all.

"This is my first time here," Viktor says, gesturing with his chin to the rest of the gallery, "but it's such a nice space. I was wondering, could you tell me a little more about it?"

"Me?" Yuuri asks.

Viktor lets his smile widen. "Aren't you the curator, Mr. Nishigori?"

Yuuri makes a face. "Please," he says. "Just 'Yuuri' is fine. And, ah—" He looks down and away, just as Viktor had hoped. "I'm just an assistant."

"Oh," Viktor says softly, "I hardly think you're 'just' anything."

Yuuri goes pink again; it really is very attractive. "Well, um. I've actually only been here for a month. I—I'm a PhD student, working here for the summer, and no one...no one else was available. I don't think I would have been Ms. Subramanian's first choice." He looks so worried that Viktor on instinct wants to set him at ease.

"I'm sure you're doing very well," he assures. "You just need to loosen up!"

"Vitya, what are you doing," Yuri hisses, but Viktor ignores him. He's just doing what he's supposed to, right? Working to get an in.

"You don't even know me, Mr. Fyodorov," Yuuri says, with a little wry twist of a smile. "How can you be so sure?"

"I'm certain of it," Viktor says, beaming. "Something about you tells me you're very good at your job. Oh, and," he adds slyly, "just 'Mikhail' is fine." Slowly, Yuuri's smile warms into something more sincere. Viktor has always been one to capitalize on an opportunity, so he says, "Why don't you tell me about your favorite piece here?"

Yuuri blinks. "Oh," he says thoughtfully. "That's very difficult, to say, I—I'm not sure. I think I'd have to show you a few?"

Perfect. "So show me," Viktor says eagerly, and when Yuuri wavers, tacks on, "Please?"

Yuuri folds. "Of course."

He takes Viktor to a painting in the corner: two dancers at a barre, stretching.

"Why this?" Viktor asks, curious.

Yuuri is quiet, for a moment. "I like the lines of it," he says. "I used to dance ballet when I was younger, and something about this—the colors, maybe, or the shadows—puts me right back there, in my teacher's studio."

He stiffens, as if just now hearing himself. "Sorry, that was—probably more than you wanted to know."

It's isn't. Viktor wants to know so much more. He hums. "You have a good eye," he says instead.

"Ah," Yuuri says, clearly embarrassed. "Thank you." He smiles faintly. "I like to think the ballet taught me to appreciate clean lines."

"Well," Viktor muses, with an approving glance over Yuuri's form, "that suit does look fit you very well. And such a nice shade of blue."

Yuuri laughs, sheepish. "Actually," he admits, "my—my friend chose it for me. He has much more experience with formalwear than I do."

Viktor smiles. "Then your friend has very good taste. But," he murmurs, stepping closer into Yuuri's space, "you're the one who's wearing it so well."

Yuuri looks up at him, eyes very dark, mouth slightly parted. No one is watching them, but Viktor is still keenly aware that they are very much in public.

"Yuuri," he says, his voice low. "Could we go somewhere more private?"

"There's—" Yuuri swallows. "There's a few pieces inside, in storage?" He glances down at his hands, fiddling nervously with the button of his suit jacket.

"Take me there," Viktor whispers, and Yuuri nods jerkily.

"Be careful," Yuri warns Viktor, and Viktor jolts unpleasantly back into himself. "This is good, that's probably where they'll put some of the display pieces tonight. Take a look at the security when he's not looking."

 _I know_ , Viktor wants to say, except Yuuri's still watching him with those dark eyes. And besides: a part of Viktor had actually forgotten, for a moment, what he was doing here.

They stumble through the back door of the gallery, which leads to a hallway, where Viktor pulls Yuuri close. "Can I kiss you, Yuuri?"

Yuuri makes a thin noise of want, almost a whimper, and Viktor clutches him tighter. "Not here," Yuuri says, but he doesn't sound like he's convincing even himself. The way he pushes Viktor up against the wall proves it.

Viktor moans, hands gripping Yuuri's hip like a lifeline. "Please," he murmurs against Yuuri's jaw, and Yuuri shivers.

He pulls away, shaking his head, and Viktor's gut sinks. But then Yuuri says, "Not here—somewhere more private," and Viktor sighs, elated again just like that. It should scare him, how quickly his emotional state has become dependent on Yuuri wanting him. Right now, though, he doesn't give a damn.

Yuuri pulls him to another door, locked, equipped with a fingerprint scanner and a keypad. Absently, with the part of his mind still thinking clearly, Viktor notes down the code as Yuuri punches it in. Once inside, he pulls Yuuri to him again and says, "Now? Please?"

"Yes," Yuuri breathes, and Viktor lets out a triumphant noise and kisses him.

Yuuri moans into his mouth and leads Viktor backwards until Viktor's back bumps up against one of the tables in the room. "I want this so much," he says, sounding almost embarrassed by it. He pulls back, his face flushed and glasses askew, and Viktor wants him so, so desperately.

"Yuuri," Viktor breathes, cupping Yuuri's jaw reverently. It's all he can say.

"Viktor," Yuuri sighs, and the sound of it, soft and wanting, sends a thrill through Viktor.

Then Yuri says, "Oh, fuck," and Viktor remembers why Yuuri saying his name like that isn't a good thing.

He jerks back. "What—" He almost falls, and realizes that while he was distracted, Yuuri handcuffed him to the leg of the table. His stomach drops. "Yuuri, what's going on?" In his ear, Yuri is devolving into a stream of panicked cursing, while in the room, Yuuri reads him his rights in a strained, rushed voice, and Viktor can't _think_.

Yuuri takes a few hasty steps away when he's done, his face closed off. He picks up his glasses and wipes them, before putting them back on. Then he pulls out a radio from inside a drawer and says into it, "I have him secured. Come get us whenever you can."

He pulls out another small device, pushes a button on it, and Viktor's earpiece starts crackles loudly. He flinches, free hand going to his ear automatically.

Yuuri's eyes catch the motion. "You may as well take it out," he says quietly. "It won't work anymore." Viktor searches his face for any uncertainty, any remorse, but he doesn't. He can't. He can't read Yuuri at _all_.

He takes his horror at the revelation of being so thoroughly played and buries it unexamined under a familiar mask. "What agency?" he asks coolly. "Or are you even really law enforcement?"

"FBI," Yuuri responds.

Viktor sighs, voice carefully light. "Damn. I thought it would be Interpol, if anyone."

"Sorry to disappoint," Yuuri replies with a hint of dryness.

Viktor smirks. He opens his mouth to toss back another quip, but what comes out instead, unbidden, is, "Was any of it true?"

Yuuri goes still. "What?"

"Everything you said," Viktor continues, kicking himself the whole while for how bitter, how telling the words are. "Did you lie about everything?"

Yuuri opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Viktor snorts, the sound harsh in the quiet storage room. "What, nothing to say?"

Someone bursts in through the door, and Yuuri whips around. "What—"

"Who the hell are you?" the newcomer demands, and Viktor jolts as he realizes the man is holding a gun. Yuuri's sharp inhale indicates that he notices too, and he starts toward the intruder.

The man snarls and shoves Yuuri, and Yuuri goes stumbling back. He falls, hitting his head hard on the table on the way down. Viktor can _hear_ how hard, and his heart stutters.

"Hey!" he yells, jerking against the handcuffs.

The man turns to look at him and narrows his eye, contempt curling his lip. "Nikiforov," he scoffs. "Knew it was only a matter of time before you went down. Still," he shrugs, "at least it makes my job easier."

He raises the gun and, before Viktor can draw in a breath, fires it.

Viktor hears the bang first, followed by a crash, and a sharp cry. Only then does he feel the searing pain in his thigh. He shouts through gritted teeth, free hand flying to the wound. It's just a graze, he notes with the small part of him that's remained calm, as he stumbles to his knees. Just a graze, so he shouldn't be in too much danger.

"Viktor?"

But damn, it fucking _hurts_.

"Viktor!"

Skidding footsteps, and then Yuuri falls to his knees beside him, horrified concern etched on his face. He's bleeding very slightly from a scrape on his forehead. "Oh god," he gasps, "are you—"

"I'm fine," Viktor says, struggling to even his breathing. He manages about halfway, but he'll take it. "Only—barely touched me. What happened?"

"I knocked him out," Yuuri says grimly. Viktor looks beyond him to see the man slumped over against the wall, unmoving. "If you can hold on while I restrain him fully, I'll bandage that up afterward."

Viktor grits his teeth and nods, jerky.

Yuuri's mouth twists unhappily, but he moves away to a dark corner of the room, from which he retrieves a nondescript duffel. From inside of it, he pulls out a roll of duct tape, which he uses to tie the man's hand together behind his back, and then his ankles together as well. Then he goes back to the duffel and grabs what looks like a first aid kit, bringing it back to Viktor. He cleans around the wound in Viktor's thigh, then bandages it tightly. "That should hold," Yuuri says.

Viktor sighs and drops his hand, slumping against the table. The motion makes the cuffs jangle, and Yuuri startles.

"God," he says, "what's wrong with me." He fumbles for the key in his pocket and unlocks the cuffs, while Viktor watches in shock.

"You're...letting me go?"

"I doubt you'll get very far," Yuuri says, wry, glancing at Viktor's thigh. "I just imagined it would be more comfortable this way for you." He looks around at the room and laughs, incredulous and slightly hysterical. "My first solo sting and it turns out like this. What a mess."

Viktor tries for a smile, but it must fail because Yuuri's face creases again with concern.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Does it hurt too badly? I can try to find some painkillers, but I don't know how well they'll help."

"It's not that." Viktor shakes his head. "It's just...guns. I hate them." They terrify him, actually.

"Oh," Yuuri says softly. He pauses, like he's going to continue, but then there's a loud crash from outside.

"Lee!" a woman shouts. "Lee, are you in there? We gotta go, did you kill the bastard or what?"

Yuuri springs to his feet, grabbing the gun from where it lies abandoned on the ground. "Don't come in!" he fires back, his voice firmer than Viktor could have imagined it could be. "I swear to god I'll shoot him if you do."

There's a pregnant pause, then, "Who the fuck are you?"

Yuuri doesn't answer, just loudly loads the gun with the magazine he must have pulled out of it earlier.

The woman falls silent, and distantly they hear the sound of yelling. Yuuri drops the gun.

"I hope the guests and staff all got out," Yuuri says anxiously. "Now I know why my team hasn't arrived. They're probably standing off with—whoever the hell that is out there."

"Would you really shoot him?" Viktor asks.

Yuuri throws him an incredulous, indignant look, and Viktor huffs.

"I didn't think so, I just—" He smiles crookedly. "I'm glad I didn't misread you that badly."

Yuuri falls silent, and Viktor closes his eyes, pained.

"The ballet was real."

Viktor opens his eyes. "What?"

Yuuri is fidgeting with his jacket button again, not making eye contact. "You asked me earlier if any of what I told you was true. I really did study ballet when I was young."

"Oh," Viktor says. Yuuri's cheeks are pink again, and Viktor realizes abruptly that despite how hard he's tried his entire life, he's never figured out how fake a blush. "That's..." Viktor smiles. "Tell me more?"

"The suit really was my best friend's idea," Yuuri obliges. His face twists momentarily. "Viktor," he says, and it sounds like a confession. "I'm sorry. For tricking you."

It's so wholly, beautifully unexpected that Viktor has to laugh. "Yuuuri," he says. "I'm a con man. You don't have to apologize to me for lying."

Yuuri remains unconvinced. "I don't know," he says, almost under his breath. "I feel like I do."

"It doesn't matter," Viktor says. It's a lie, but he's good at those, after all. "It's not like I've never slept with someone on a con before, it's no big deal."

"Yeah," Yuuri says faintly, looking away. Viktor feels a pang of regret, and ruthlessly quashes it.

Suddenly, Yuuri's radio crackles to life. "—atsuki! Katsuki, can you hear me?"

"Yes," Yuuri says breathlessly, scrambling for the radio. "What's happening? Is everyone—"

"Fine. We'll be able to get to you in twenty. Is Nikiforov with you?"

Yuuri freezes, eyes flying to Viktor. Viktor smiles ruefully and waves. He knows his time's up. Yuuri swallows.

"No," he says. "He got away almost as soon as I contacted you. I was trying to let you know, when the other crew came in. I can only assume they were looking for him?" He mutes his end and closes his eyes wearily, barely listening to whatever the person on the other end is saying.

Viktor's breath leaves him in a rush. "Yuuri, what are you doing?"

"It doesn't feel right," Yuuri mutters. "Not like this."

"Yuuri," Viktor attempts.

Yuuri straightens, jaw firming. "I'll give you my phone, tell them you stole it. Do you have someone you can call?"

Viktor nods numbly. He'll call Yuri first, since his earpiece won't work. He's sure Mila and Georgi and probably three other people by now are waiting somewhere in a five minute radius for him to call. Chris is doing something somewhere in the midwest, Viktor can go hide in his bedroom until he recovers.

"Good," Yuuri says. He reaches out a hand, and then jerks it back.

Without thinking, Viktor grabs him by the wrist. He pulls Yuuri's hand back toward him and kisses the knuckles. "I won't forget this," he promises.

"You should," Yuuri says quietly, but it's clear his heart's not in it. His eyes are wide and very dark; a tiny flame of hope flickers into existence in Viktor's chest.

"I won't," Viktor repeats. It's impossible for him to imagine that a few hours ago, he was just listlessly going through the motions of another boring job. It's ridiculous, it's—ludicrous, what with the rapid beat of his heart, the heat spreading through him, the way his lips are still tingling from where they touched Yuuri, completely overshadowing the pain in Viktor's leg. "Yuuri," he says, suddenly, like it's being wrenched out of him. "Don't forget me, either?"

Yuuri smiles, a tiny, helpless thing. "I don't think you have to worry about that at all," he says dryly. He pulls his hand back and supports Viktor to the wall of the room, where he reveals a hidden door that leads to a tunnel. "This'll take you out to an alley a block from here. Be careful."

"I will," Viktor says, stepping into the tunnel. Yuuri smiles at him again, bittersweet, and closes the door after him.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me on tumblr as pageleaf and twitter as @peakcaps :)


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